Too restless to sleep, I wandered into the kitchen, made a cup of tea with honey, and opened my laptop’s search engine.
I typed Kurt Brandt, added a plus sign, and added the word casino. I was curious to know more about his previous employment and who his benefactor might be. A few links came up for him. I clicked on LinkedIn. In his biography, Brandt described his early career, first as a dealer at a casino in Reno, Nevada, after which, in the 1970s, he’d moved into the technological side of the business, whatever that meant. Computers weren’t in vogue yet. Maybe being deft at counting cards was considered technology. Unsatisfied with his rise in the ranks, Brandt returned to college, got his degree in electrical engineering, and was hired at General Motors in the 1980s. That must have been where he’d met my grandfather. No more references to casinos appeared. He had no apparent connections to the mob.
Trying to figure out the identity of his wealthy benefactor was fruitless, so I returned my focus to William Fisher. He was easier to track online. He had a business. He had a website, which was quite professional and forthright. He’d received stellar recommendations on Yelp from his former employer and other clients. I discovered that he’d been arrested once for a bar fight, but he’d been released on his own recognizance. No jail time.
Next, I did a deep dive on his son, Johnny Fisher, who was in prison for murder. He failed his first consideration for probation. He cried foul and racial profiling. There were a number of newspaper articles about the murders of the policemen, with pictures of Johnny included. He was a beautiful young man, with lustrous black hair and strong Native American features, like his father. He looked proud, not defiant. Recently, a reporter had decided to tackle Johnny’s story. He wrote that none of Johnny’s friends had a bad thing to say about him. Johnny was a stand-up guy. He never caused trouble. The reporter had included a picture of the girlfriend who had turned on Johnny. Currently, she was working as a waitress in San Jose. Clad in a tight purple dress, her hair streaked with purple dye, her mouth turned down in a churlish frown, she appeared untrustworthy. Was that the best photo the reporter could find, or had he been biased against her?
Learning nothing new that could help me point a finger at any of the main suspects, I gave in to fatigue and went to bed.
I slept fitfully, waking every two hours and checking the driveway across the street. The SUV hadn’t budged, but I could still see the top of the driver’s hat. Brandt. I was sure of it. He was no longer smoking. Smart move if he happened to doze off. I wondered whether I ought to call the police but decided against it. Brandt was making no move to come closer.
In the morning, feeling wiped out and looking ragged, I took a shower, dressed, and drank a cup of black coffee. I followed that with scrambled eggs and a glass of orange juice. I hoped the sugar and caffeine would kick in soon.
Before leaving the house, I checked the neighbor’s driveway. The SUV was gone. Maybe I’d been wrong. Maybe it hadn’t been Brandt. Or perhaps he’d moved to another vantage point. To confirm my suspicion, I called Detective Sergeant Quincy. He was quick to reply that yes, sadly, Brandt had made bail. He didn’t know who had posted it. He suggested I hire protection. I said I didn’t think I’d need it. Brandt wanted me to find his treasure and hand it over.
Thankful for a brief respite of sunshine before the next storm hit, I headed to Starbucks and picked up two lattes. Waiting for my items, I felt a deep ache in my gut, a searing need to be at the lake. To see the whitecaps skipping across the water. To drink in the heavenly mountain air.
“Aspen?” the counter clerk said, checking the name on the latte cups tucked into a carry box. “Are you Aspen? Your order is ready.”
I thanked her, grabbed the box, and strolled to the Prius. It was time for the meetup I’d arranged with Tammie.
After setting the carry box on the passenger floor, I drove to Sharon Heights and parked on her cul-de-sac. Tammie was talking to Mia on the stoop. Mia looked slim in body-hugging jogging clothes. Tammie was dressed to the nines in a shimmery blue dress, spiked heels, and a broad-brimmed blue hat. I moved toward them with the lattes.
Tammie caught sight of me and gasped. “Aspen, oh, gee, I apologize. Emergency meeting at Vasona Lake. I can’t stay. Chat later?”
My cell phone jangled. I pulled it from my purse and glanced at the screen. “Wait. Don’t go yet, Tammie. Give me a sec. I want to ask you one thing. But I have to answer this.” Olga Payne was calling. “Good morning, Olga.”
“Herman wants to talk to you,” she said.
“Herman—”
“Yes. He has a lead for you,” Olga said. “It’s about Viraj. The debt thing.”
“The debt thing,” I repeated.
“He was very cryptic.”
“Okay.” I held up a finger to Tammie to stay put.
Mia said, “Bye, Mother. I’ve got to get a three-mile run in before I pick up Giselle.” She trotted to her shiny blue Celica, waving. “Bye, Aspen.”
“Thank you, Olga.” I ended the call.
“Was that a lead?” Tammie asked.
“I hope so. Listen, we need to talk. I . . .” I hesitated. “I haven’t been a good friend. I’d like to help you if I can.”
“Help me?” Creases formed between her eyebrows.
“I’d like to be a proxy for my mother. I know she used to lend you money. If you—”
“I don’t need help. I’m good. But it’s sweet of you to offer.” Tammie pecked my cheek and glanced at her watch. “Sorry. I’ve got to run. Later.”
“Take the latte. I can’t drink two.” I pressed one into her hands.
She accepted it and darted to her Jaguar, glancing over her shoulder at me as she slipped inside, brow still furrowed and eyes narrowed. Was I reading guilt into her look? To be truthful, she appeared awfully dressed up for a meeting at a county park.
Hearing the same alarm bells that had gone off in my head yesterday, I hurried to the Prius, made a quick U-turn, and followed Tammie.
While driving, I tried Herman Hoek. The call rolled into voicemail. I set the phone aside and concentrated on Tammie. If she’d really intended to go to Vasona Lake, she would have headed to the 280 freeway. Instead, she had taken the same route as she had yesterday, through the Stanford Shopping Center, right on El Camino Real, and left on University Avenue. But this time she didn’t drive to Bryant Street. She veered left on Kipling and parked. She got out and started running, her tight skirt preventing her from taking long strides. I found a parking spot three cars away but stayed in the car, idling. Tammie entered the Blue Moon Café, a chic eatery with exterior bistro tables bordered by a wrought-iron fence.
Knowing her destination, I eased out of my parking spot and drove to another around the corner. I climbed out of the car and moseyed to a footwear store on the opposite side of the street. After entering, I positioned myself by the window display so I could observe Tammie. She was seated at one of the patio tables. She glanced left and right but not in my direction. A few minutes later, a man in a gray pin-striped suit approached—the lawyer with the strong jaw and shoulder-length hair that Tammie had followed yesterday. He plopped into the chair opposite Tammie and leaned forward on both elbows. He wasn’t happy. Even in profile, I could tell he was glowering at her. A waiter set down two glasses of water. When the waiter moved away, Tammie said something. The lawyer removed an envelope from the inside of his suit pocket and slid it slowly across the table. Tammie lifted it, inspected the contents, and smiled. The man held out his hand. Tammie pulled an envelope from her purse and handed it to him. He opened it and removed what appeared to be photographs and a roll of film. In addition, Tammie picked up her cell phone, swiped to what I presumed was the camera app, and displayed it in his direction. She tapped the screen and showed him the cell phone again. He nodded, satisfied.
I sighed, disheartened. Extortion was such an ugly word, but that had to be what had gone down. Tammie had given him the photos she’d taken of him in exchange for payment. Was that how, with the lack of interior design clients, she was enhancing her bank account?
How many others had Tammie extorted? And for how long? A moment from Sunday night flashed in my mind. At Tammie’s condo. I recalled how Mia had asked her mother to show me photos of her projects, but Tammie had diverted the conversation. Had she been trying to keep me from seeing photos of her other marks on her cell phone?
Racing to the Prius, I drove around the corner, idled by the curb, and decided to call the D.A.’s office. If I was right, Tammie had made a similar business deal with him. I located the telephone number and tapped it in. When the D.A.’s administrative assistant asked what my query was in regard to, I hung up. The man would never admit to me that he was being extorted.
I drove to the rental house, thinking about Tammie the whole time and wishing my mother was around to advise me. I pulled into the driveway and searched for signs of Brandt. His RAV4 wasn’t anywhere in sight. He wasn’t, either.
The house was cold when I entered. I tossed my latte cup in the garbage, kicked on the heat, poured myself a glass of water, and tried Herman Hoek again. His phone rang once. Twice.
At the same time, Max was calling me, so I ended the first call and answered hers.
“What’s up?” I took a sip of water.
“I’ve got big news.”
“Don’t keep me waiting.”
“Your grandfather’s gun was the murder weapon.”
“Holy—” My breath caught in my chest and a shudder ran down my spine. The questions that had plagued me the other day returned full force. Why had the killer put the gun back in the hope chest? How had he . . . she, I revised as a possibility . . . known it was there in the first place? “The forensics team is certain?”
“Positive. The corresponding microscopic markings are consistent with two bullets having been fired from the same firearm.”
“Even after all this time.”
“That’s the beauty of this particular science. What do you want me to do?” Her voice brimmed with energy.
“First, I have to figure out who could have known about the existence of the gun.”
“Rosie knew.”
“Yes, I know, but she did not do this.”
Max sniffed. “Then one of her friends.”
That was what Evers had thought. Antoine Washington came to mind. Who else? “I’ll talk to her.”
“Grill her,” Max ordered.
As if I could grill my sister. No, I’d have to tread lightly. She’d held on to the secret about our mother’s last words for fourteen years. What else had she kept to herself?
“Listen,” I said, “I need you to help with another thing.”
“On that personal matter?”
I smiled. How well she knew me. “Yes. I’d like you to check out Tammie Laplante’s financial records. See how much debt she might be in. Has she refinanced her townhome? Is her car leased or paid for? Et cetera.”
“What are you looking for?”
“An explanation for why she would be extorting men who are having affairs.”
“Oho.” Max chuckled. “That was why she was following the attorney. Okay, sugar, I’m on it. Be safe.”
My heart ached, wishing I could rule out Tammie as a suspect in my parents’ murders, but I couldn’t. Had she been extorting people for years? Had she wanted out of that crazy life? Had she gone to my parents’ house hoping to find the one coin that could bolster her bank account so she could stop?
Please let me be wrong.
Next, I contacted Nick. He had a quick moment to chat. His murder case was heating up. He’d already narrowed it down to two suspects.
“How are you holding up?” I asked.
“I’m hanging tough. How about you?” he replied, his voice warm and caring.
“I’m exhausted, but I’ve uncovered new clues.”
“Any other altercations with your ex or Brandt?”
“Nothing from Damian. Brandt was arrested,” I said.
“Good.”
I didn’t add that Brandt was already out on bail and that I’d seen him in his SUV, lurking in the neighbor’s driveway. “I miss you,” I murmured.
Nick chuckled. “Be honest. You miss the lake.”
I caressed the diamond on my engagement ring. “Nope. You.”
“And the lake.”
“And the lake,” I echoed. “And Candace. And Cinder. And my job. And—”
He laughed out loud. “Got it. You’re lonely. Me, too. Did your aunt contact you about the ballistics findings?”
“She did.” I cocked my head. “Did it take all your willpower not to call me yourself?”
“Yep.”
After blowing him a kiss goodbye, I tried Herman Hoek again.
A man answered. “Who’s this?”
It didn’t sound like Herman.
I said, “Mr. Hoek?”
“No. I repeat, who’s this?”
I bristled at the guy’s crisp tone. “I’ll tell you if you tell me first.”
“Detective Sergeant Quincy, Atherton Police Department.”
I sat taller, on full alert. “Detective, it’s Aspen Adams. What are you doing there? Has something happened? Where’s Herman? He wanted to talk to me about—”
“He’s been attacked.”
“Attacked? By whom?”
“We don’t know. I’m working with Palo Alto P.D. on this. A dark sedan was seen burning rubber down the street.”
“A Honda Civic?”
“The witness couldn’t tell. She didn’t catch the plates, either.”
“Is Herman . . .” I couldn’t say the word.
“No. He’s not dead, but he’s in bad shape. He’s on the way to the hospital.”
“Which one?” I asked.
“Stanford.”